GET THERE!

"Just get to Oz, get to Oz!" I kept telling myself,
like I was Dorothy, or the Tin fucking Man.
Like going anywhere,
or getting to anywhere had ever settled a single thing.
I'd been going to and getting to places
my whole life,
and it had never settled a goddamn thing.
"Get to Oz, my ass!" I muttered.
"If I ever got to heaven, I'd be telling myself,
'just get to hell, get to hell. The answer's there.'"
I looked around.
For eleven o'clock at night,
the Indian Buffet was packed.
"Fuck it," I mumbled, exhausted.
"Get to sleep! Get to sleep, you fool!"

"THE BASTARDS BACK THERE, IN THEIR SHITTY SUITS AND THEIR SHITTY CUBICLES, THEY HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA HOW OBNOXIOUS IT IS WHEN THEY FREEZE MY BANK ACCOUNT WHILE I'M OUT HERE JUST TRYING TO EAT AND SLEEP WITH A ROOF OVER MY HEAD, JUST TRYING TO STAY ALIVE..."

A POEM - FAIR WARNING

FAIR WARNING
The next time I saw him,
I grabbed him by the shirt collar,
And I said to him through gritted teeth,
“I'll bring you a mouth full of dirt,
and another ass-kicking,
if you ever come to my house again,
at that godless hour,
and beep that FUCKING SCOOTER HORN!”
He blinked, and I knew we had
An understanding, and then I said to him,
“now, you want to drink or what?”

A SHORT STORY - THE BAD DAY

THE BAD DAY
by JACK TOM

I woke up in the morning all twisted around. FUCK THEM, I thought. FUCK THEM ALL. I pulled on a pair of pants that weren’t as dirty as the ones I’d ruined the night before. I stepped into some shoes and climbed into a t shirt and was on my way. I made it into the kitchen, stopped at the fridge and pulled out a beer and slurped it right down. It hit the spot and I opened up the door and walked out, with that feeling like, THIS IS THE LAST TIME I’LL WALK OUT THIS FUCKING DOOR and then I started down the street.
There was a small child riding around on a bicycle, a little girl, a little blonde girl, and I thought, HEY, IN FIFTEEN YEARS YOU’RE GONNA BE SUCKING SOME GUY’S COCK AND NOTHING WILL MATTER. THEN MAYBE YOU’LL GET KNOCKED UP AND HAVE SOME FAMILY AND THEN YOU’LL DIE, JUST LIKE THE REST OF US. SO KEEP RIDING IN CIRCLES, BECAUSE THAT’S ALL THIS WORLD IS, GOING AROUND AND AROUND AND GETTING NO WHERE.
I kept on walking, trying to ignore everything. She drove by in her car and pulled up and slowed down and said, THE ONLY WAY THIS IS GOING TO WORK OUT IS IF YOU TALK TO ME. THAT’S HOW IT WORKS. WE HAVE TO TALK. THAT’S THE ONLY WAY THIS IS GONNA WORK. I looked at her and said, BABY, I’M ALL THROUGH. And then I said to her, without ever having had the thought before that second, I’M GOING TO VEGAS AND I’M GOING ALONE. ALONE, YOU HEAR ME? I’M OUTTA HERE.
She started crying and I did too and then she said WHY CAN’T WE MAKE THIS WORK? I kept walking and those salty, booze-filled tears slid down my face and then I looked over to her and said, A PERSON CAN’T EXPLAIN ALL THE FEELINGS THEY HAVE. SOMETIMES THEY JUST HAVE THEM, AND THAT’S IT.
It was a good line but she was smarter than that and she said, WHAT DO YOU WANT? I stopped for a second and asked her, WHAT DO I REALLY WANT? She nodded and said, YEAH. I had the ammo to blow that question out of the water because I’d asked myself that question my whole life. I WANT TO NOT EXIST. I JUST WANT TO NOT EXIST. IF I DRINK ENOUGH, I CAN MAKE MYSELF NOT EXIST. GETTING DRUNK IS LIKE NOT EXISTING, IT’S LIKE HEAVEN OR DEATH, AND THAT’S ALL I’VE EVER WANTED FROM THIS LIFE.
She screamed BUT WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO NOT EXIST? And I screamed back I JUST WANNA BE ALONE. I could sense that neighbors were peering out from behind curtains. FUCK THEM, I thought. CAN’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT? I DON’T THINK YOU CAN. I DON’T THINK ANYBODY CAN. I’VE TRIED BEFORE, TO EXPLAIN THIS DESIRE, AND NOBODY HAS EVER UNDERSTOOD! I JUST WANT TO BE ALONE BECAUSE THEN THERE IS NOBODY ELSE THERE TO HURT, AND NOBODY ELSE THERE TO HURT ME.
There was a short silence and I knew she was taking every word I said to her beautiful, huge heart.
Then another thing came out of my mouth which was just like the Vegas thing. I hadn’t really thought about it before I said it. I JUST WANT TO BE ALONE AND LIVE IN A CAVE!
There was another silence, like she was giving the idea some thought, trying to think of a cave where we could make this happen.
AND I WANT SOME CRAYONS OR SOMETHING, SO I CAN SCRIBBLE ALL OVER THE WALLS! BECAUSE WORDS AREN’T LIKE PEOPLE. THEY DON’T WANT ANYTHING FROM ME, THEY JUST WANT TO BE PUT DOWN ON THE PAGE. THEY CAN’T HURT ME. IN THE END, THEY CAN ONLY SAVE ME.

A POEM - THOUGHTS ON DISLIKE

THOUGHTS ON DISLIKE
I saw a picture of him and
I didn’t like him from the start.
And this seemed strange to me at first,
Because I couldn’t pinpoint what it was,
What exact thing it was about him,
that I didn’t like.
Then it hit me.
And it hit me hard,
Like a kick in the balls.
I didn’t like him because he reminded me
Of a friend of mine.
A friend of mine who I also didn’t like.
And I thought about that too,
How it was strange to have a friend,
That you really didn’t like.
“well,” I wondered, “how very, very odd.”

A POEM - KEVIN THE GAY MALAY WHO WANTED HELP PICKING OUT UNDERWEAR

KEVIN THE GAY MALAY WHO WANTED HELP PICKING OUT UNDERWEAR
Kevin was the Malaysian kid
I met on the ferry
From Penang to Butterworth.
He spoke very little English
But for some reason
Wanted to know everything there was to know
About how I chose my underwear.
“I go to store, to pick underwear,”
He said to me, his voice high and whiny.
“I want know, how you pick your underwear.”
“well, Kevin,” I said,
“I just get whatever is cheapest.
I find some that fit me, and well, that’s it.”
“but what brand you think is good, and all that?
“Hmm. I don’t know what brands you have here.
I usually find that Hanes are cheap,
Or Fruit of the Loom,
Or whatever they have on sale.”
“so, you no have you girlfriend or mom pick them out?”
I gave it some thought.
At first it seemed so foolish.
Why would I want a girlfriend or mom,
To pick what felt good around my waist,
and around my ass and balls.
But then, some guys did have their moms
Or their girlfriend pick out their underwear.
And I bet their underwear was better than mine.
“well, Kevin. No.
I pretty much go with what’s comfortable and cheap.”
He kept at it,
grilling me about colors, brands, and styles.
I tried to convey to him,
That there really wasn’t that much to it.
I went into a store, maybe Wal – Mart or wherever,
Went to the underwear section,
And found the cheapest cotton boxers.
Then I’d gripe about them being a few bucks a pair,
But reason that a single pair usually lasted me years,
Unless it got lost in the wash or something like that.
I sat there and watched the land from the ferry,
as it slowly approached.
We both knew that Kevin was gay
And that he wanted me to go with him
To help him pick out his underwear.
Finally he just outright said it,
“will you, um...” he stuttered.
“can you, um, come with me, to the store?”
I smiled and laughed and snorted,
And gave it some thought.
I could really fuck with this kid.
I could get him to wear pink thongs
Or some shit like that.
Hell, I could ruin his life by just spending an hour,
Convincing him that zebra-striped tighties
were the only way to go, when it came to underwear.
But to be honest, I had better things to do.
I was in Malaysia,
Headed towards Kuala Lumpur, the capital,
And I had a bus to catch.
I had road to travel and places to see,
People, other than Kevin, to meet.
In the end, though, it wasn’t any of that.
It was just that picking out my own boxers,
Even if only every few years,
Was bothersome enough for me.
I wasn’t about to waste my time
While visiting some foreign country,
Picking out somebody else’s underwear.

A POEM - THE WORDS WON'T WRITE THEMSELVES

THE WORDS WON’T WRITE THEMSELVES
He called me up on the phone.
I don’t know why I answered.
“come on down to the decks,”
He said to me, voices in the background.
“come down and have a drink!”
I gave the idea some thought.
I never minded a drink or two,
Out there on those sunny decks,
The boats sailing by on the bay.
“you workin’”
“no, I’m drinkin’!”
“oh, Christ.”
The problem with my friend T.
was that a drink or two turned into
a day or two on the whiskey train,
and I knew if I went down there
I’d never make it back to the keys.
“nah. I only like to come down
When you’re working,
so that I can pay less for drinks and hassle you.”
“come on, it’s a beautiful day out.”
“listen, kid. I’m in here at the keys,
Trying to make something of my life.”
“make something of your life out here,
That’s what I’m doing!”
I chuckled into the phone.
“And that’s why I’ll get published
And become one of the greatest of all time.
People will drink and cry and toss flowers on my tomb,
While you’ll just drink yourself to death,
never having been published.
And dogs will piss on your grave.”
There was silence for a moment,
Then he said thoughtfully, “that’s really mean.”
“Ho ho ho,” I laughed,
“but it might also be true. Now listen,”
I said, sipping at the beer in front of me.
“I’ve gotta go. These words won’t write themselves.”

"TRAVELING CAN BE HELL. IT CAN OFTEN BE HELL. BUT MAYBE THAT'S WHY SUCKERS LIKE ME KEEP AT IT. WE DON'T WANT TO HAVE LIVED AND DIED WTHOUT SEEING AND EXPERIENCING EVERYTHING LIFE HAS TO OFFER, HELL INCLUDED."

A POEM - WHAT WAS WRONG WITH THE PECKING ORDER?

WHAT WAS WRONG WITH THE PECKING ORDER?
I’d gotten into the city around dusk,
Put back a small flask of whiskey
That didn’t taste like anything much,
And spent a few hours trying to get things done,
On a WiFi server that was just being expoited.
I met a few English boys and spoke with them,
About this and that,
And then thought I’d go out
And see what was what.
There were signs for a reggae bar,
And I’ve never minded reggae,
And generally liked a bar,
So I thought I’d give it a go.
Along the street, though, as I walked,
Rats just ran from everywhere,
Every nook, every corner, every open space.
I’d never seen so many rats in my life!
This was all well and good.
Rats could do whatever the hell they wanted,
As long as they stayed out of my way,
And these rats were very good about
Staying out of the way.
But what got me the most was when I saw a rat,
Just standing there by a bag of trash,
While a cat walked by.
I tried to speak with the cat,
I tried to tell it,
“hey, there’s a rat over there, go get it,”
But the little feline fuck wouldn’t hear me out.
So I tried to explain to it,
“that’s a rat. That’s your arch enemy.
Your rival. You were born to chase those fuckers!”
The cat still just strutted past,
Didn’t give a shit.
“what the hell is wrong with these creatures?”
I wondered, as I continued walking along.
Then I came to another rat,
A less timid one.
He was digging into some trash
And I watched from a distance at first.
Then another cat approached,
And I thought, “all right, this is it. Get that fucker!”
I just wanted to see some action,
A chase, or at least something!
Maybe it was the man in me, or the American in me.
The cat walked up,
Right beside the rat,
And began digging into the same mess,
Like he was helping him out,
Like they were two pals who’d partnered up.
“what the fuck is wrong with you?” I shouted,
Which apparently scared them both enough,
To run and hide under the same closed up food stand.
I stood waiting, hoping to see,
at least hear a fight, but nothing.
It was like all the animals here,
They were too lazy to be bothered.
They’d given up their loyalties to their own species,
And formed some brotherhood.
There was too much food lying around already,
For them to go after each other.
I came to the bar and it was closed
And then I began walking home.
At the end of the street
There was a dog.
And I mean, this fucking dog couldn’t be bothered.
In its wildest dreams it had never chased a cat,
Or even trotted after one.
Maybe it’s just America, I wondered.
Maybe it’s just at home we like to fight
And see the action and see the guts and the glory.

A POEM - JUST LEAVE ME BE

JUST LEAVE ME BE
I was just sitting there at the bar,
Rolling up cigarettes and smoking them
Away and swilling beer.
It wasn’t much but it made sense
and it passed the days.
Then she came in.
She was average height
and she had this flat body like a young boy.
She came right up to me and gave
Me a once over and then said to me,
“you know, smoking will kill you.”
I didn’t look back at her.
I didn’t need to see her disapproving eyes.
I just remained there sipping at my bottle,
and then finally I replied,
“well, lady, that’s the idea.”
She turned to walk away but then turned back.
“so, you’re one of those bastards, huh?”
I sucked down the rest of my beer,
threw a twenty on the bar,
got up and walked out of there.

"MANY PEOPLE DON'T SEEM TO ACTUALLY WANT
WHAT'S BEST FOR THEM.
THEY WANT WHAT'S WORST FOR THEM.
THEY THINK IT'LL BE BETTER THAT WAY,
AND IN MANY WAYS, I DON'T BLAME 'EM."

A POEM - WHEN YOU THINK YOU HAVE IT BAD, OTHERS HAVE IT WORSE

WHEN YOU THINK YOU HAVE IT BAD, OTHERS HAVE IT WORSE
I was down and out in Trang,
After bidding farewell to Gerard,
Up in Phuket.
By down and out,
I don’t mean I was broke.
I had money to eat,
For at least another little while,
But I was wretchedly sick,
Morbidly depressed,
And was wondering what the hell it was,
that I doing with my life,
or rather wasn't doing with my life.
I was wandering the streets,
In search of something to ease the pain,
Caused by the severe congestion
In my sinuses.
I saw a pharmacy
And was about to go in,
When I noticed a dog up on the counter.
Normally, in Thailand,
This wouldn’t have phased me.
Hell, I’d once eaten at a place
That had a live cat sleeping in the food fridge.
You just got used to these things.
But this dog,
It was standing there,
And the pharmacist,
He was lifting up the dog’s tail,
And sticking his finger into its asshole!
I did a quick 180 and thought to myself,
“shit, I thought I had it bad. Poor little doggie!”

A POEM - THE WAY IT WAS DURING THAT TIME IN PORT CITY

THE WAY IT WAS DURING THAT TIME IN PORT CITY
During that time in Port City,
On some mornings
I’d wake up
and start right in with the beers.
I figured if I got into it early enough,
I could avoid the dry heaves
And snub the inevitable headache.
I’d sit in my little writing den,
Drinking the beers,
Staring at the wall,
Listening to her cry in the room next door.
After maybe six beers I’d walk outside
and lie down in the driveway
and crawl halfway under a parked car.
It was a very sad point in my life
and I was always having this desire to die.
Maybe I just hoped the neighbor,
Or whoever owned the car,
Would not see me and just get in
And run me over.
But this never happened.
Eventually a friend would come find me
and kick at my ribs until I woke up.
I’d stare up at him and he’d say,
“come on, Jack. Let’s go to the bar
and get you something to drink.”
I’d crawl out from under the car,
Get to my feet and dust myself off.
“All right, man. Sure. Whatever you want.
I just don’t care anymore.”

A POEM - THE MAN WHO GAVE A SHIT BUT DIDN'T REALLY

THE MAN WHO GAVE A SHIT BUT DIDN’T REALLY
It was late at night and somebody
had ripped off the bathroom stall
wall and somehow carried it
out of the bar without being seen.
And there he was, on the shitter,
Smiling big and pushing hard, some
God-awful stink. He was had this belly and
this shaved head that gleamed
Under the neon light on the ceiling.
Long, thick, pointy beard and his
Shorts around his ankles. I knew
Then he was a man, a real man,
Unbothered by the status quo, careless
Of what others thought. He was a man
Who, while delivering a shit out into
the world, just really didn’t give a shit.

"WHEN THE ROAD IS DARK AND THE DESTINATION UNKNOWN, THINGS ARE JUST AS THEY SHOULD BE. FOR THE LONELY ONES, THEY ARE THE GREATEST ONES."

A SHORT SHORT STORY - EDWARD

EDWARD
by JACK TOM

For the last seventeen years, Edward had woken up and dressed and gone down to the coffee shop two blocks away from his apartment. But this past Tuesday was different. Edward woke up and dressed but didn’t go to his coffee shop. He instead got into his car and drove down to the local hardware store and went inside. He’d only been into that hardware store a handful of times and nobody there recognized him.
He found the isle which had work gloves and he pulled on two rubber gloves and then went to another isle, the one with the axes and hammers. He picked out an axe and went up to the counter. A man was behind the register, his hand on the counter. Edward raised the axe and brought it down onto the man’s hand, cutting off his fingers.
The man yelped and yanked his fingerless hand back towards his chest and he screamed, “what he hell’d you do that for?”
Edward beamed and smirked and replied, “For the last seventeen years I’ve woken up in the morning and gone out for a coffee and over my coffee I’ve thought about coming in here and pulling this off. It’s too bad for you that you were the one working the register.”

A POEM - THE COMMON HOTEL FIGHT

THE COMMON HOTEL FIGHT
The first thing somebody does
When they’re sleeping in the room
next door to your room,
when you’re being too loud,
blasting music or shouting and fighting,
is bang on the wall.
I’ve always found this funny,
Because the only thing
that makes me wanna do,
Is bang back harder,
louder and much meaner.
And so I do,
And then they bang back,
And there we go,
Some little war started again,
Between rooms in a hotel,
Between two different types of people,
Who keep different hours,
And enjoy different volumes of music,
Maybe different types of music, too.
But that’s all there is in this world,
Little wars going on between people,
With separate systems of belief,
Separate ideologies,
Separate gods and whatnot.
And it’s a beautiful world to live in,
If you’re like me,
And you enjoy fighting and yelling,
And especially banging on walls
Of people you’ve never met,
And will most likely never see.

A POEM - THE ARRIVAL OF GERARD

So it had begun.
Gerard had arrived.
I was sitting there,
At the hotel bar,
Chain-smoking reds,
Slurping at Beer Chang,
Just trying to stay awake.
Then I saw this figure
Walk up the steps,
Over towards the lobby.
“mister fucking Gerard,”
I said to him.
He looked over,
Smiled that million dollar smile,
And it was on.
Beer after beer,
Smoke after smoke,
We talked and laughed,
And held great conversations,
Something of which I was
Badly in need.
Towards the end of the night,
as the sky lit up,
We stumbled up the stairs,
To our luxurious hotel room,
AC and private bathroom,
Four fuckin’ windows.
"Oh, Christ," I said,
"It's so goddamn good to see you."

A POEM - HE WAS OFF TO A BAD START

HE WAS OFF TO A BAD START
He must have woken up in the morning
By hearing the garbage truck outside.
The men were grunting and
Throwing the trash bags into the truck.
I heard him jump out of bed.
He’d forgotten to
Put out his trash the night before,
So he tumbled down the stairs and
didn’t bother with shoes
and when he finally made it
Outside the garbage truck was rolling
Down the street.
He tried to wave it down
but as he moved across
The small front lawn
He stepped in a pile of dog shit
Left there by our neighbor’s Jack
Russell Terrier.
He watched the garbage truck drive away
and he held h
is hands up and wrung them at the sky
and shouted, “goddamn mother-
Fucking dogs! Clean up yer fucking shit.”
I was inside my living room drinking a beer.
After witnessing the whole
spectacle I let out a chuckle and
Took another swig from my bottle,
It was just another reminder to me
why it was better to stay inside,
stay inside where I was safe and alone,
better not to risk going out there
to face the world.

A POEM - SHE WAS LEARNING HOW TO DRINK BEER

SHE WAS LEARNING HOW TO DRINK BEER
She came in the door and slammed it shut.
My dog jumped up from my feet
and ran growling through the hallway
and into the kitchen where she recognized my girlfriend
And began to prance around.
“I hate Sam Adams,” my girlfriend called out to me.
“it’s so gross.”
I remained at the keys and chuckled and said,
“still trying to learn how to drink beer?”
“yup.”
I reached out for my bottle of Miller High Life
and sucked down a few mouthfuls.
“just give it time, babe. Practice makes
perfect, right?”
“I guess, but I hate that Sam Adams. What terrible stuff.”
“yeah, I’m not a fan of it either. Too bitter and heavy. Stick with the lighter ones like Corona or High Life.”
“ok,” she replied. “I gotta get ready to go to
work now.”
“all right, babe. Make some money.”

A POEM - IT WAS JUST HOW IT WENT

IT WAS JUST HOW IT WENT
He called me up on the telephone,
Said to me, “my life is a shambles.
I don’t do anything that matters,
Don’t provide any benefit to anybody.
I know the world would be better off
If I just died and got it over with,
Went right straight to hell
where I’m probably headed anyway.”
I listened for a moment to the sounds
In the background of wherever he was.
“that may be so,” I replied,
“but who cares about the world?
You at Lagerheads?”
“yeah,” he said, sounding guilty.
“they doing those two dollar PBRs?”
“yeah, but-”
“nice. I’ll be right down!”

A SHORT STORY - THE SUICIDER'S CLUB

THE SUICIDER’S CLUB
By JACK TOM

Every Tuesday night at 7 pm they would go into the bar area of Applebee’s, sit down at the same table and order drinks from a waitress. They had a fairly exclusive club that had been started years before by the infamous Stuart Brady and Virinia Jacobs. They were the first ones, the original members of the Suicider’s Club. They established the rules and promoted membership and charged dues which were very minimal.
Then, one year after they had formed the club, they killed themselves in exactly the ways they proclaimed they would. Stuart shot himself in the head with a .357 Ruger and Virginia hung herself from a rafter in her attic.
During the year before they had killed themselves, Stuart and Virginia had grown the club to a regular membership of seven or eight people. Often times members would quit and decide to go on living, but some of the men and women would see it through and fulfill their promise to themselves and to the club, that being that within one year of their first meeting, they go through with a successful suicide. Some members would only be in the club for a few months or weeks even before pulling the trigger or slashing their wrists, but other members would wait it out to the last day and leave their final meeting with a graceful smile.
On one occasion a man named Maxwell Field heard about the club and went to his first meeting and as soon as the meeting was finished he went home and drove a steak knife into his heart and bled to death on his kitchen floor. He had been that inspired.
So, one by one, the members would either quit or kill themselves off and new members would join and only the club itself would live on. As was decided by Stuart and Virginia, the longest attending member of the club would lead the meetings unless he or she chose to relinquish the duty to the next senior member and on down the line.
On this Tuesday night a middle-aged woman named Wanda Springer was the senior-most member. She was short and just thinner than chubby with curly brown hair and a pleasant way about her. She had been leading the meetings for nearly four months.
People showed up and ordered drinks and mingled and this week there were no new members introduced. Wanda took attendance and after it seemed everyone who should be there was there, she began.
“Well, thank you all for coming to tonight’s meeting. Let’s toast to that.”
All the members raised their glasses and clinked them together and took small sips or big gulps from their drinks.
“First off, I’d like to announce to anybody that hasn’t already heard, Harold Smalls took his own life this past Sunday evening. He was in his late sixties and he brought much joy and laughter to this club. His cause of death was not released in the paper but if Harold went the way he told us he would, he swallowed twenty-three of his prescribed 20 mg Valiums and quickly but calmly drank down six Woodford Reserve manhattans. No cherries. Harold had been a member for nearly five months and he will certainly be missed.”
The members sat around the table for a few minutes and shared stories about Harold and clinked glasses and said things like, “to Harold, for doing what he wanted to do.”
“All right, Suiciders,” began Wanda. “Tonight we’re going to talk about the etiquette of the suicide note. We’ll cover questions such as who to include, average lengths, where it should be left, etc. Afterwards, we’ll have open discussion in which each member will have the opportunity to express their thoughts and ideas about the subject. And please always remember, this club is meant to be a club of friends with like minds, and aside from simple statutes that Stuart and Virginia set up, there are no rules regarding any topics we discuss. They are just simple, how should I say it, brainstorms.”
Wanda pulled out a folder from her briefcase and began to pass around copies of previous suicide notes left by past club members or strangers whose notes had come into her hands. Along with the papers she handed a little purse around the table and club members put in a dollar or two or three if they were feeling generous. When it came back to her, Wanda returned the purse to her briefcase.
“Please review these and then take a look at the handout. The first and foremost question on this subject is, “whether or not to leave a suicide note.”
The members nodded and glimpsed the sheets of paper and skimmed the words.
“Now, there are a great many reasons why a person may choose to end his or her own life, but most of those reasons can fall into two categories, one much bigger than the other.”
“Many of us are here tonight because we are depressed, lonely, angry or just plain sick and tired of living. We want to leave this world because we don’t want to go on living in it. This is the majority of suiciders.”
There were nods and “uh-huhs” and “mm hmmps” and one of the younger members, Steven Stinson, even said, “righto.”
“But a small percentage of us kill ourselves for a completely different reason. We commit suicide in order to live longer.
Any person taken out of this world prematurely is more likely to be remembered in the hearts and minds of his or her friends and family, and this is sometimes magnified if the man or woman brings on their own death. In killing themselves, they consider that, in a way, at least in the memory of others, they will live forever.”
“Now, if you regard yourself a member of the first group, leaving a suicide note is optional because a note is like a final farewell, the last effort you made while living. But the members of the first group are not obsessed with being remembered or celebrated.
As the great comedian George Carlin said, and excuse my language, ‘the truth of it is, a lot of people just want to get the fuck outta here.’ So nobody should feel it is absolutely necessary, if you believe yourself to be a member of the first group, to leave a note at all.”
There were murmurs and nods of agreement amongst the group and Steven Stinson said aloud, “that does make a lot of sense.”
“But if think yourself to have the characteristics of the second group, which, it should be said, is in no way inferior or superior to the first, it is almost certainly necessary for you to leave a note, no matter how long or short. It will be the thing that your family and friends will read over and over and remark as the last thing you did on this earth.”
Wanda carried on and went from topic to topic, speaking with quiet but stern authority about ideal lengths, subjects to cover, last words, etc. Occasionally she glanced around the table at people’s glasses and when she deemed it fit, the group took a break to order more drinks or use the rest rooms.
After she’d finished her discourse there was a question and answer session which led into something more like a conversation but words never became heated and everybody was quite genial to one another.
Towards the end of the meeting the members were mingling amongst themselves and Wanda could be seen having a calm chat with the man next to her, John Strutts. He was the second-most senior member, having heard about the club through Wanda and having joined it only a week after her.
“So, John,” Wanda began in a hushed voice. “This will have been my last time leading the meeting. I’m going to do it this tonight. My time is up. My husband is out of town with the kids and I’m going to use muscle relaxants pills and go in my sleep. I would like to die peacefully and I can’t imagine any way more peaceful than that.”
John gulped and his face revealed a sad but reverential acceptance. He’d known Wanda for nearly a year now and in that time he’d come to like her quite a bit.
“So,” Wanda continued, low and business-like. “You must take my briefcase with you tonight when you leave because you will be the new oldest member of the Suicider’s Club. The torch is in your hands, or the knife,” she said, cracking a joke which John Strutts had seldom heard her do. “And I’m sure you will do just fine. Besides,” she said, smiling again, “it’s only one week, right?”
John nodded and turned to face Wanda. Their eyes met and he noticed a kind of wise expression on her face, like she’d already seen what would soon be coming next.
“Wanda,” he said, very sincerely. “Thank you for the opportunity to join this sacred club. Thank you for everything you’ve done and if there is an afterlife or heaven or anything like that, I look forward to seeing you there.”
A tear began to form in Wanda’s eye but she dabbed it with her finger and pretended to be getting something out of her eyelid. She stood up and pushed in her chair and the members quickly noticed and became silent because they too were aware of what the date signified to Wanda.
“Dear friends,” she said. “I wish you all the best of luck with your life and death endeavors. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you all and share with you all throughout the past year. Please spread the word about this club and until that chosen day, enjoy your lives to the fullest. All right, good bye.”
The members mumbled their farewells and clapped quietly as she walked through the restaurant and out the door. John Strutts reached into the briefcase and retrieved the purse that Wanda had passed around earlier. As was customary on a senior member’s last day, his or her tab of four or five drinks was paid using the collections of previous members’ dues.
After sorting out the drink tab, the members said their goodbyes to each other and went on their separate ways. John Strutts remained seated long after the others had left. He began to go through the contents of the briefcase, sifting through typed papers and hand-written notes. Since he would be leading the next week’s meeting, he figured he might as well get a head start on the planning.

A POEM - WEIRD SATISFACTION FROM THE SEAT OF YOUR SHORTS

WEIRD SATISFACTION FROM SEAT OF YOUR SHORTS
I’d be sitting there,
In my hotel room,
Just in my boxers.
It was a habit of mine,
That when I was inside
My own room,
I always stripped down
To my boxers.
At first it had weirded out
My college room mate,
But he’d grown used to it,
When I’d walk into the room,
Blizzard roaring outside,
And strip down to my boxers,
And sit at the computer
Or lie in bed and read a book.
But nowadays,
While sitting around,
I’ll sometimes notice
That the boxers I’m wearing
Are ripping at the seems,
Or have big tears in them,
Or are just plain thread worn,
To the point of uselessness.
And when I see this,
I’ll smile and think to myself,
Trying to recall when
I bought them,
Some time long ago,
“now that’s getting my money’s worth.”

A POEM - ABRAM'S BAD IDEA

ABRAM’S BAD IDEA
It was a bad idea.
We all knew it.
We were on the playground
and he told us to watch him.
He was about to slide down the fire pole,
Face first.
We didn’t bother to warn him.
We just stared, wide eyed,
to see if what we thought would happen,
would happen.
And it did.
He began to slide down,
Slowly at first,
Then faster,
until his face smashed into the concrete footing
at the bottom of the pole.
His nose and lips split open
and blood splashed everywhere.
We all looked around at each other,
nodding and saying, "yup."
After being sent off
to see the school nurse,
the teachers came out
And began to interrogate us as to
Whose idea it was,
who had put poor Abram
up to such an idiotic task.
We all denied taking any part in the proposal
and later on in the day when he returned to class,
he had stitches in his upper lip, a swollen nose,
and a silly but defiant grin on his face,
like he’d known what would happen all along,
like it was all part of his plan.

A POEM - OUT OF BED AND FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT

OUT OF BED AND FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT
I was sitting in bed,
Trying to figure out what day it was,
And whether or not it was that night
That Gerard was flying in.
Outside my window was another building,
About two feet away.
I heard a thumping around and then,
“tap out! Just tap out, dude!”
It was nine in the morning
And a pair of friends were already wrestling.
It warmed my wicked heart.
“aw, what the fuck was that?!” one grunted.
“just tap out, dude. Tap out.”
“hey!” I yelled into the alley,
Not knowing from which window
the voices were coming.
“you guys shut the hell up,
Or I’ll come out there
and kick both your asses.”
There was a silence for a moment,
And one of them murmured back,
“oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, now what’s the date today, anyway?”

A POEM - IT WAS THE PEOPLE WHO RACED- THE RATS TOOK THEIR SWEET TIME

IT WAS THE PEOPLE WHO RACED- THE RATS TOOK THEIR SWEET TIME
Some nights I’d just sit at the bar
And watch the rats
sneak in and out of the kitchen.
I’d think long and hard
about those bastards,
How for ages and ages
they’d made it,
Just scrounging
through the trash and filth,
Carrying with them
every terrible disease,
Peering out at the world
from those dull eyes.
Thinking nothing about life
Or death. Just living by instinct,
FIND FOOD, AVOID DANGER, FUCK
AND CARRY ON THE RACE.
Eventually the barman would see the rats,
And charge towards them shouting,
pounding his feet to scare them off.
One time this big bastard
Came waddling out,
Probably’d just finished a whole pot of curry,
And he stopped there in the doorway,
Stared right at me for a minute,
And I knew if he could have a thought
In that raisin brain of his, and if
He could speak that raisin thought, he’d say,
“you know, there’s very little difference
Between your people and mine.”

"THE NIGHTS WERE FESTIVALS OF MADNESS AND DEPRAVED DECADENCE AND THE MORNINGS WERE GODLESS, SUICIDAL WASTELANDS."